Seven Seas
by The Barkeep
Summary: Mark finds it hard to maintain existence after betraying his best friend, but when he finds actual reality, the results are even more devastating. R&R PLEASE! CHAPTER 7 UP NOW! 05/02! IT'S BAAAAAAAACK!
1. I Mark

Seven Seas-   
By Ducky 

**_Author's Note:_** First and foremost, if you think you know where this story is going, if you honestly think it predictable and already done- you're _very_ wrong. I'm looking forward to gauging reactions for the next few chapters. This story, "Cellophane Sun", and "Detachment" keep me going, so please leave nice feedback. You'll be my bestest friend ((winks)). So, I'm sinking to inevitable Matt-lyric inspired story. Well, it was more of a conglomerate-of-things-inspired story, and I just happened to find a song that fit my idea. Later on in the story there will be certain situations that may both some people, but I'll warn you of those when they're going to happen. No sense in ruining the literary experience. Ciao! 

**_Disclaimer:_** Lyrics and title of "Seven Seas" are © Matt Caplan. The recognizable characters aren't mine- although I might wish that I could get my hands on Mark or Roger- they're the late, great Jonathan Larson's. I'm just borrowing for my own entertainment. Taking me to court would so not be in your best interest. I'm a teenager, I have nothing. The plot, etc. are all mine, so I don't want to see it under anyone else's nom deplume. Ciao!   


* * *

**_Mark :_****__**

I sit, staring at the cheap, hardwood floor of the loft. It's beginning to splinter in every direction, spastic slivers of wood peeking up from what was once a plain of plywood imitating oak. Roger is sprawled in an orange lawn chair that we lifted from St. Mark's, picking at the strings of his Fender. His chin is cocked lazily against the hollow of his throat, and I can hear him humming. It's been a while since he's played; I haven't heard a note since he stopped seeing Mimi. 

He looks up from the neck of the guitar, grinning lopsidedly. I nod, picking up my camera. 

"November 25'th, 3:00 pm, Eastern Standard Time," I say, shifting my weight onto my knees. Roger waves. "Our stove-pipe is clogged and we're out of matches. There's a year-old box of Raisin Bran in the cupboard, and nothing else." 

I pan away from the kitchen, focusing on my roommate. "Roger's playing again. He broke up with Mimi a little over year ago, and he hasn't left the loft since. No one really comes by anymore, except _her_. She used to drop by every day, even after she and Roger called it quits, but she never admitted he was here. She only stared at me when I talked to him, when I tried to get _her_ to talk to him." 

Roger squirms uncomfortably, forcing out an obscure melody from his fingertips. His eyes wander to mine, and I know what he wants to say. 

"Mimi and I started dating six months ago," I say quietly. Roger's fingers tear at the strings. I let the camera drop, the lens focused on the decrepit old floor. Slowly, I adjust the shot so that I can't see the pained expression on his face. "It was a hard decision for both of us. She still won't acknowledge Roger, and I know it's hard for him to see us together." 

I pause, realizing that Roger's struggling to play _Your Eyes_. The sound is so far away, so vague, that it's almost surreal. I sigh, watching my best friend's emotions flicker across his face in contorted flashes. His eyes are convulsing beneath their lids, and I want to break my gaze, but I can't. Not just yet. I zoom in carefully, watching his blue eyes tremor in their sockets, before zooming out and watching him battle his feelings. His fingers continue to slide over the strings, but he can't seem to get out the words. 

Suddenly, my scene is interrupted by a knock at the door. Instantly, I check my watch. 3:15. Shit, I'm ten minutes late. I was supposed to meet Mimi downstairs ten minutes ago. I shut my camera off. 

"Look, Roger, I'll be back around 7:30 at the latest. She has to work tonight, so..." 

He nods, waving me out of the loft.   



	2. II Mimi

**_Author's Note:_** This chapter is, obviously, Mimi's POV. However, I don't want people getting confused. It's timeline is in relative counterpoint to the first chapter's, so while Mark is upstairs talking about Raisin Bran, this is what Mimi was doing. It's short, I know, but the next few chapters will be longer.   


* * *

**Mimi:**

His tee-shirt sits on my bed, in all it's Tobasco-stained glory. It's rumpled and badly in need of run to the laundromat, but it's _his_. I can smell the cheap cologne on the ribbed collar, the lens cleaner that he uses on his glasses and camera, the afterthoughts of the oatmeal soap I gave him for his birthday, and the vague scent of chi tea and burnt cheese. Its color has faded to a decayed shade of white, but I don't care. 

My Mark. I still haven't gotten used to calling him that, and I don't think I ever will. It's been a year since Roger left me, and I still haven't forgiven him, but Mark has filled a little bit of the void. He cares about me, and I love him. But I worry. He and Roger were so close, and now their friendship is just a memory. Prehistoric film clips and yearbook photos are all that remain, and I can't help but feel responsible. Maybe if I had stayed away, controlled myself, Mark would have more than that. He would have more than hushed voices and guilt. 

He is constantly trying to get me to acknowledge Roger, to talk to him. It scares me. I made my peace with him before he moved on, and I don't need to fuck it up now. So, I've ignored Mark's pleas; to a certain extent. Lately, it's been getting harder. Every time I come by... it's just getting too hard to deal with. 

That's why I'm sitting here, all but naked in last night's black negligee and my kimono, clutching my telephone and his undershirt. My window is open, even though it's frigid outside, and his voice is coming down the fire escape. 

_"November 25'th, 3:00 pm, Eastern Standard Time," _he says._ "Our stove-pipe is clogged and we're out of matches. There's a year-old box of Raisin Bran in the cupboard, and nothing else."_

I smile slightly. It's true. He and I have been eating off my tips for the past three months. We occasionally mooch off of Collins or Maureen and Joanne, but the hundred or so bucks I bring in every night is our safety net. I lean back against my pillow, glad that one of his observations is finally retaining some normalcy. 

I look at my clock-radio, and jump up. 

"Shit!" 

It's almost five after three. Mark and I have a date. If I don't get him out of the loft, everything I've done in the last few days will have been in vain, and, considering the circumstances, that is the _last_ thing I need on my conscience. 

I throw off my kimono, letting the satin catch in the autumn wind and fall around my ankles. Shoving on a white camisole over the negligee, I pull on an old pair of dark carpenter pants and an over-sized camel colored sweater; Mark's favorite. I somehow manage to shove my hair into an unruly, but attractive knot at the nape of my neck. Rubbing on some lip gloss, I snatch a twenty off of my dresser and shove it into my pocket before leaving the apartment. 

I race up the stairs to the loft, trying to fight off the guilt and nervousness that's shoving it's way into my subconscious. I knock on the door, shifting my weight from one foot to the next. Behind the door, I hear him talking to Roger, and my stomach lurches. 

"This is for his own good," I whisper to myself as the door cracks open.   
  
  



	3. III Mark

**_Author's Note:_** Hey, all. Thanks for the delectable feedback. I would've made this chapter longer, but I hit a really good stopping point, and a lot of action occurs in the next chapter so bear with me. Keep it coming, and you'll see more of this soon.   


* * *

**Mark:**

She leans against the door frame, a few fugitive tendrils of her dark hair escaping onto her shoulders. I can see the concern in her eyes as I shut the door, but I try to ignore it. I know that she doesn't like the way I cater to Roger. She wishes that I could be blunt, and lull Roger into a false sense of acceptance, but I can't. Not when he hasn't spoken to me in 377 days. 

"Hey, Meems," I say, leaning down to kiss her. 

Mimi turns her head, and my lips brush against her cheek. 

"Hi," she whispers. 

I draw away, locking the door. "What's the matter?" 

"Nothing, Mark," she replies, attempting to smile. 

"Mimi..." I start, gently tugging on one of her curls. She takes my hand in her own, bringing it to her lips and kissing my fingertips. Her makeshift smile has already crumbled, and she guides my hand to the back pocket of her jeans, carefully leaning her head against my shoulder, as if one of us might shatter at any given moment. 

"It's really nothing, sweetie," she reassures me. 

I nod, knowing to let it go. "Sorry I was late." 

She shrugs, "It's all right. I wasn't moving too fast myself." 

"Oh. Um, so, what do you want to do?" 

"I thought maybe we could go to the park. It's been a while since we've just taken a walk. I figured we could just spend some time together, and maybe pick up some hotdogs and ice cream while we're there." 

I nod, gently kissing the top of her head as we head downstairs. "Would this little excursion include swings?" 

Mimi grins, nodding. "I was thinking so. I mean, it's been forever since I've been to the playground. I haven't gone there since Roger and I... well, you know. I just haven't been there in a while." 

I move my hand from her pocket, and take hers. "It's all right, Meems." 

She shrugs, and I shake my head. 

"Mimi, it's been a year and, well, he misses you." 

I feel her pull away, and she wraps her arms around herself. 

"Mark, please don't." 

"He doesn't talk. All he does is sit and stare. It's like he's back in withdrawal. I mean, he hasn't said a single word to me in 377 days, and counting," I say, tentatively grabbing her arm, forcing her to look at me. 

Mimi glares at me, her brown eyes barely visible behind the vague curtain of her curls. "Fuck, Mark. Can't we at least go on _one_ date that doesn't automatically turn into a therapy session? For Christ's sake, we spend more time talking about my relationship with Roger than actually having one of our own. It's been six fucking months since we started dating. It needs to stop." 

"It can't, Mimi. Not as long as he's still there." 

"He's not, Mark. He's _not_ there!" she screams. "He hasn't been for a year." 

I shake my head, still gripping her arm. "He is! You just don't see him." 

"You're right, Mark," she says quietly. "I don't see him. We were on good terms when it ended, and I'm not going to fuck it up and play pretend so that you'll be more comfortable." 

I let go of her arm, and stare at her for a moment. She's standing in the middle of the sidewalk, pale and fragile; like a lost child. The soft, brown sweater she's wearing is fraying at the edge, and it hangs from her childlike frame. Her unruly mess of curls is suspended in the wind, dark brown tendrils blowing every which way. Her eyes, so deep in color that I sometimes can't tell where the iris ends and the pupil begins, are cast towards the gutter, and filled with angry tears. This has happened so many times before that her image becomes surreal, almost like a familiar photograph that has been slightly altered. 

"Mimi, I'm sorry." 

She nods, "You're always sorry." 

"I know. There are just some things I need to get used to I guess." 

She takes my hand again, placing it on her opposite hip and kissing the small ravine behind my ear. I shiver, and smile at her. 

"What do you say we go for a walk in the park?" she whispers, nibbling gently on my ear. 

"I'd say that's a wonderful idea," I reply, hesitantly pressing my lips against her temple. "I love you, Meems." 

She grins. "I know you do, Mark. Now; let's go."   



	4. IV Mimi

**_Author's Note:_** All right. This chapter may be a little hard to follow near the end, but trust me. All will be explained in the next chapter. This chapter also deals with intense issues, so proceed with caution. Please! GIVE ME FEEDBACK!   


* * *

**Mimi:**

I sit on the swing, letting Mark push me towards the wind. It flies towards the metal bar at the top, and I feel my body gain momentum and jolt slightly from the seat. Our fight is long forgotten. He laughs, and I hope that Collins will show up soon. I can't bear to think of all the pain that this will cause Mark. The sooner it is over with, the sooner someone will take me into their arms and help me forget about what I've done. 

Mark grabs the chain of the swing, causing me to fall back into his arms. I giggle reflexively as he kisses my neck, twisting a curl around one of his fingers. 

_Come on, Collins._

"Mark! Mimi!" 

I swivel my head slightly, as Mark gently presses his lips against my jaw. He draws back, and waves politely at our incoming friends. Collins nods his greeting, and I smile facetiously. Mark grins, and threads his fingers through mine. 

"Hey, Collins!" Mark says warmly. "What're you doing here?" 

Collins shrugs. "I was in the neighborhood. I decided to end class a little bit early and let the kids get a taste of the reality of nature." 

I nod. 

"Of course, the fact that I haven't had a decent hot-dog in a over year didn't exactly discourage the decision either." 

"Of course not," Mark replies, his lips curving into an entertained smirk. I grimace, and Collins smiles empathetically. 

Mark feels me flinch, and tightens his grip on my hand. "Meems, you're sure you're okay?" 

I look up at him, and nod. "I'm fine. Just a little twitch, babe." 

"So, you two in the mood for a hot-dog a la that seedy vendor, there?" Collins asks pointedly. 

I nod ferociously. "That's what we came for!" 

"It's on me," Collins offers, as Mark helps me from the swing. 

"Hey, thanks," Mark replies, snaking an arm around my waist. I lean my head against his shoulder hesitantly. 

Collins nods. "What are friends for? So; how is everything going with you?" 

I shrug, knowing that Collins is waiting for _Mark's_ answer. 

Mark's demeanor changes almost instantly. He lets go of my waist, letting his eyes fall to the pavement, and his arms fall limply at his sides. His pace slows, and I hear him sigh. 

"What's up, Mark?" Collins presses. 

"Roger still isn't talking to me. It's like a roller coaster all of a sudden." 

I see Collins' eyebrows raise. He knows Mark is about to make a confession. 

"How do you mean?" he asks patiently. 

Mark sighs. "For a while, right after he and Mimi split up, it was just like he was bouncing back from withdrawal. He was lethargic. He didn't do anything. Sometimes it's still like that. And once in a while he'll smile and almost act human again, like today. Then, he falls." 

Collins nods. 

"But... well, I don't feel safe." 

We stop walking, and I take Mark's hand in mine again. 

"Why?" 

"He's so angry. I mean, he throws things around, breaking stuff; he'll scream for hours on end. A few times, I actually thought he was going to kill me. He'd just get so angry, and something would snap and..." he trails off. 

I kiss his cheek, trying to keep from bursting into tears.This is all new to me, and it only concrete's what Collins and I are about to do. 

"Has he hurt you?" Collins prods. I feel his eyes wander to mine. 

Mark shrugs. "I don't know. He's hit me, if that's what you mean. But every time I turn around, something is different. It makes me so nervous." 

"Mark," Collins whispers. "We need to talk." 

Mark looks up from the ground. "What do you mean?" 

I tighten my grip on his hand. 

Collins shakes his head. "This situation with Roger." 

"Yeah?" Mark replies, curiously. 

"Don't you think you might be exaggerating it a bit?" Collins offers. 

Mark glares at Collins. "You don't believe me?" 

"I didn't say that, Mark." 

Mark tears his hand from mine, and rolls up the sleeve of his sweater. He points to a non-descript patch of skin. "Look! Don't you see that? Don't you see the bruises? He's hurting me, Collins. How is that exaggerating?" 

I separate myself from the two men, taking a few steps away. 

Mark shoves his arm towards Collins. "Look! Look right there, Collins! Can't you see it?" 

Collins takes Mark's arm in his hands, letting his fingers rest on Mark's supposed contusion. He lets his fingertips brush up and down the surface, as if inspecting it. His eyes are searching desperately for something, anything, but I know he doesn't see it. 

"No, Mark." 

"What?" 

Collins shakes his head. "No, Mark. I don't see anything." 

"Fuck! Christ, Collins, it's right under your fucking nose? Why are you acting like this?" Mark fumes. I bite my lip. 

Collins looks away. "Mark? Can we go back to the loft?" 

Mark shrugs. "Look, whatever. I don't understand this, Collins." 

"You will," Collins admits, taking my hand and leading me back to my significant other. 

We remain silent for the half-hour trek to the loft. Mark unlocks the door, and we go in, not knowing what to expect from the next few minutes. 

Maureen and Joanne are sitting in the living room; Maureen in a fit of tears, and Joanne holding a stack of paper and a pen. Mark stares at them. 

"What're you guys doing here?" he demands. "What the Hell is going on here? Where's Roger? Collins!" 

"Mark, sit down," Collins instructs him gently. 

"Collins, what the fuck is going on?" Mark screams. 

I lay my hand on his shoulder. "Honey, please. Sit down." 

"Meems?" he looks at me, and I see the familiar hybrid of fear mingling with confusion. "Meems? What's happening?" 

Maureen's lip quivers. "Oh, Pookie!" 

Mark shakes his head. "I don't understand." 

"Baby, please sit down. We all need to talk," I insist. 

He sits. "Where's Roger?" 

"That's what we need to talk about," Collins replies hesitantly. 

"Oh, shit. You guys didn't have him incarcerated, did you? Fuck. Is that why you're here, Jo?" Mark inquires nervously. 

I cringe. 

Joanne sighs. "No, Mark." 

"What is it?" he prods, his voice tense. I stare at the floor, concentrating on the splinters and cracks. "Where _is _Roger?" 

"Mark," Collins begins. "Do you remember what happened a year ago?" 

He nods slowly. "Roger and Mimi broke up. I don't get it. What does this have to-" 

Collins interrupts. "Do you remember why?" 

We watch him shrug. "Roger was sick. He'd stopped taking his AZT." 

"Yeah," I whisper. "Honey, do you remember why he stopped _that_?" 

"Because... he started helping you with yours, and- and he was trying to save for a new guitar. You were mad, because you thought he was wasting himself. You wanted him to forget the new guitar. You wanted him to forget paying for your AZT." 

I nod. 

"You started fighting about it, and it went downhill." 

"You're right, Mark. It went downhill," Collins agrees. "It got pretty bad." 

"What is going on, guys?" he asks quietly, studying me. "Where's Roger? What've you guys done to him?" 

"We haven't done anything to him," Joanne insists quietly. 

"Bullshit," Mark spits. "I want to know what the fuck is going on! Is this some sort of conspiracy?" 

I clutch is hand. "Please, listen to us." 

"God, Mimi! You're in on this too? How sick are you people?" 

"Mark!" Collins says vehemently. "You're not making any sense." 

"No, you're not making any sense!" Mark cries, almost in tears. "What... what is-" 

"Mark, Roger and Mimi never broke up," Collins interjects. 

"What?" Mark chokes. 

"They never broke up, Mark." 

Mark shakes his head. "No. No! That's not possible. Mimi and I- Roger's been..." 

"Do you know why they never broke up, Mark?" Collins prods. 

"Stop it!" Mark screams. 

Collins sighs. "Mark, you have to listen to me!" 

"Stop!" 

"Mark..." Collins whispers. He's on the verge of tears himself, and I already feel the liquid emotion sliding down my cheeks. 

"What're you trying to do?" Mark wails. "What?" 

"Mark, listen!" Collins snaps, kneeling in front of Mark and grabbing his shoulders. "Do you know why Roger and Mimi never broke up?" 

"Leave me alone, Collins!" Mark warns. 

"No. I can't. Not until you understand this, Mark." 

"What is there to understand? You guys are-" 

Collins shakes him. "Shut up, Mark. Just shut up and listen to us." 

Mark stares at the floor. "What do you want?" 

"Mark, a year ago, Roger stopped taking his AZT. He was saving for a new guitar and trying to help Mimi out with hers. It was winter, Mark, and Roger wasn't the best at taking care of himself. We noticed lesions around Christmas, right? Right, Mark?" 

"I don't understand. What the Hell-" 

"The lesions... Roger's virus wasn't dormant anymore. He had AIDS." 

"I know this," Mark replies pointedly. "And he's fine." 

"No, Mark. You're not hearing me," Collins continues. "He was full-blown, and that winter was so nasty. He caught pneumonia, Mark. He caught some really bad shit." 

"No, he didn't," Mark insists. Maureen chokes on a sob, and I see a tear escape from Joanne's eye. Already, I've become numb to my own emotions. 

"He did, Mark," Collins replies. "He got very sick. He couldn't eat, because he couldn't keep anything down. There were night sweats, and new lesions. By the New Year, he couldn't even walk. Not even with assistance." 

"Collins, you-" 

Collins interrupted. "He's not fine, Mark. And neither are you." 

"I don't understand," Mark says again. He stares awkwardly at Collins. 

"Mark..." Collins pauses. "Roger's dead." 

"What?" Mark whispers. 

"He and Mimi never broke up. Roger died a year ago." 

"That's not true," Mark insists. "He's-" 

Mark looks up, and I see his eyes illuminate in recognition. He points towards Roger's doorjamb. "He's right there! He's been here! You just don't visit, and-" 

"NO!" I scream. 

"Mimi, I know you don't want to acknowledge him, but-" 

"For the love of Christ, Mark! She _can't_ acknowledge him! _He isn't real_! Roger is _dead_, Mark. There's no one there," Collins says quietly. 

Mark glares at Collins. "No! You're lying! He's right there... you just want to get rid of me, so you can ignore me like you always do!" 

Mark pushes Collins away from him, as hard as he can. He balls his hand into a fist and swipes it across Collins' face. 

"You mother fucker!" he screams. "You thought you could get away with this?" 

"Mark!" I hear myself say. "Stop it! Stop it now!" 

"And you!" he turns to me. "You're in on this too! God damnit, Mimi, you said you loved me. I risked my life because I loved you! And you're just playing into this-" 

"Shut up, Mark!" I scream. 

He glares at me, and scrambles towards the doorjamb. "Come on, Roger. Help me." 

"Mark! THERE IS NO ONE THERE!" I wail. 

He shakes his head. "Stop it! Stop your fucking lies!" 

I watch Mark scream at me, glad that he is distracted. He doesn't notice Maureen pick up the phone, or hear her whispers. He doesn't see Joanne sign the papers. He doesn't see an injured Collins come out of his room with a small suitcase. He doesn't hear the sirens outside the building. 

"You fucking bitch!" he yells at me. 

The door opens, and men in fresh, white uniforms enter the loft. They know immediately for whom they've come. I look away as Mark realizes what is about to happen to him. The men wrestle him into their arms, and they leave the loft. We follow, Joanne in the lead, down to the ambulance. They load him onto a gurney, equipped with leather restraints. As they buckle the restraints, Joanne hands one of them the stack of papers; Mark's ticket to mental custody. One of them whispers something to her, and she nods. I watch as one of the men produces a syringe and needle, and rolls up the sleeve of Mark's sweater. He cries out more obscenities as the needle pierces his flawless skin. Joanne pushes me into the ambulance after the gurney is loaded. 

"We'll pick you up as soon as you're ready to leave him," she whispers to me. 

I nod, watching as Mark's temper is subdued and he falls into a drug-induced sleep. 

Collins pats my arm. "Good luck."   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. V Mark

**_Author's Note:_** Well, now, that was fun, wasn't it? It isn't every day we send Mark to boobie hatch. I said all would be explained in this chapter, but considering it's from Mark's distorted point of view, it might not be. Bear with me. Mimi will forever be the voice of reason, and she's up next. Sister Jo; you are a lifesaver. I'm not sure what I would do without you. You might think that I help you, but the amount of help that you give me... whenever you need a Guinness, don't hesitate to call on me. Everyone else, thank you for all the wonderful feedback, and keep it coming! Please!   


* * *

**Mark:**

I feel myself being lifted from the floor, first by my head and then my feet. At this point, I'm not sure who's doing the lifing, but I just want to scream at them, but my mouth can't seem to form any words. My vision begins to cloud, and the loft seems to be fading from view now. I hear footsteps on the stairs. They're so loud, each thud echoing on the rotten wood. I want to tell them to shut up and let me have a moment of peace, but they're ignoring me, so what the fuck does it matter anyway? They're getting rid of me - just like they got rid of Roger. The bastards! I know I should fight. I know I should. They're boxing me up in obscurity so that they can forget me, just like they forgot him. I definitely should fight. 

But I don't. 

I don't fight. 

I can hear the obsceneties coming out of my mouth, feel the writhing of my body, but I'm not _consciously_ putting up a fight. They fasten something across my body, constricting me. One rolls up the sleeve of my sweater, and I hear myself scream as they submerge a needle in my vein. 

Everything is a blur. There are so many faces, but I can't make sense of the silohuettes. Voices surround me, but I cannot tell the difference between one or the other, let alone make out the words. Even my own thoughts are tangled. 

A rush of heat surges through my body. My ears burn, and I feel my stomach lurch. Any and all feeling deserts me, and I fall. 

*  


I have no fucking idea where I am.   


This room is white. The walls are white, the floor is white, and even the straps that they've fastened across my body are white. The men outside the room are wearing white coats, and yet, there is color. She stands at a window, her caramel hand placed gently on the glass. Mimi stares at me, and I see her turn to one of the colorless drones, her lips moving quickly, like they always do when she's scared.   


She's scared. I have to get to her, but I can't move, let alone get out of this fucking room.   


Then, it hits me.   


She put me here. She and the rest of them. They don't want me; she never loved me. She pretended to distance herself from Roger, but it was all part of some sick joke.   


The pallid man nods at her, and walks away. Mimi turns back to the window, and this time she smiles. I turn my head my head away from her.   


A second later, one of the white-clad men opens the white door to my white room, inviting himself in.  


"Mr. Cohen," he says. He stands awkwardly against the wall, but I'm distracted.  


_Roger_ is sitting at the man's feet, his drab green sweater seemingly vivid compared to our surroundings. He grins at me.   


"What are _you_ doing here?" I spit.  


"Mr Cohen?" the man repeats, scratching his hairless dome in confusion.  


Roger grins. "Thought you could use the company. Sounds like you may not have much human contact for a while."  


"I don't understand."   


"I was there, Mark. They want to get rid of you," Roger replies.  


I glare at him. "You could have helped me. Why didn't you?"   


The man continues to pick at his bare scalp, writing furiously, as Roger stands next to him.   


"_I'm _here to help you now, Mr. Cohen," the man responds, as if I were talking to him.   


Roger laughs. "Why would I help you, Mark?"   


"What?"   


Baldy looks up from his clipboard. "_I'm_ here to help you now, Mr. Cohen."   


"Do you know what you did to me, Mark?" Roger hisses.   


"Roger, I-"  


The hairless man looks curiously at us as Roger rounds the corner of whatever the hell I'm laying on and kneels beside me.   


"Mr. Cohen, please."   


"Mimi... she was special. I loved her, you know. And you thought that it was all right to take her away? You're a backstabbing son of a bitch," Roger says quietly. "You're going to pay for it now."  


"They said you were dead."   


"You know that's not true."   


"I-"  


Roger grins slightly, flopping into a nearby chair. "You can't fix it, Mark. You don't think _I_ planned for it to be this way? Why else would I have hidden from everyone for the last year?"  


"You mean, you were in on this?"   


The other man stares at the chair next to my current place of rest.   


Roger nods.  


"Of course."   


  


  


  


  


  


  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. VI Mimi

_**Author's Note:**_ I appreciate all of the positive feedback I've received on this story, and I'm sorry you all have to wait so long between chapters. Thus is the block of writer's. I hope you enjoy this installment as much as you did the last five! Perhaps it will concrete reality for you; maybe it won't. This chapter does include some brief flashbacks, starting at one year prior to the present, and continuing from there. If you see a bold heading such as "**Three Months Later**," it means three months later in respect to the prior year. In addition, my medical facts were taken from various (legitimate, mind you) sources, and are slightly abbreviated. Please don't eat me. Enjoy!  


* * *

  
**Mimi:  
  
**I stare through the pane of glass separating Mark and I. He's lying on the gurney; thick, canvas straps bonding him to the harsh white of the sheets, his bright red sweatshirt painfully noticeable against the sterile backdrop. His chest rises and falls with measured precision. I watch intently, glad for the lull in his behavior. Seeing him asleep, unafraid and void of any pain, makes me feel better about what I've just done to him. I don't want to think about what will happen when he wakes up. Pressing my palm to the cool glass, I wait, watching my Mark in his final moments of rest.   
  
What have I done?  
  
"Miss Marquez?"   
  
The doctor at my side, Dr. Fairchild, taps me lightly on the shoulder. His face is expressionless, save for a small, and obviously false smile of pity. I break my gaze from Mark's sleeping form, and turn to him.  
  
"What exactly has been going on with Mr. Cohen in the last few months-"  
  
"It's been a year," I interrupt, softly.   
  
Dr. Fairchild nods. "What has been going on with Mr. Cohen in the last _year_? I can't do much for him if I don't know what's wrong with him."   
  
I resist the urge to slap the doctor for suggesting that Mark is anything but perfect, knowing that there _is_ something wrong with him. Why else would I damn near incarcerate him? I stare at the white tiles of the floor, contemplating everything that has happened over the last year...  
  
**One Year Earlier:  
  
**_"Mark, where were you?"   
  
Mark looks up from the lens of his camera, his blue eyes alert and unshaken.   
  
"Huh, Meems? What'd I miss?"   
  
I glare at him. "Damnit, Mark! You know what you missed. Why weren't you there? Do you have any idea what it would have done to Rog- __him, knowing that you blew off something this important?"   
  
He shuts off his camera, and stares at me.   
  
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I continue. "We __needed you. We fucking needed you today! He was your-"   
  
"Mimi, slow down. I don't understand. What's the matter?"  
  
I throw my purse at him, which he promptly dodges.   
  
"Mimi!"   
  
"Mark, he's gone!"   
  
Mark cocks his head, confused. "Who's gone? Roger? Christ, Mimi, he's just visiting his mother. He didn't feel well, remember? He'll be back tomorrow."  
  
"What? Mark-" I pause. He continues to stare at me, his eyes wide, a safe haven for confusion and fear. His face, however, is different. I've looked at so many faces today, and each one was the same; vacant and tear-stained. Mark's pale features are unscathed by the fire and pain of tears and loss. His best friend has just left him, and he is ignoring it. I can't do this; I cannot break his denial just yet.   
  
I sigh, turning to leave. "I should go."   
  
"Mimi?"   
  
"Yeah, Mark?"   
  
"What's the matter? Really?"   
  
I ignore his question, leaving the loft..._  
  
**Three Months Later:  
  
**_"You doing all right, Mark?"   
  
Mark smiles over his shoulder. "Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"   
  
"Well, uh, Roger-"   
  
"Yeah. Well, I think everything would be a lot better if you would just talk to him."   
  
I gawk. "What?"   
  
"Just talk to him, Mimi."  
  
"Mark, I can't. Neither can you."   
  
"Maybe if you would, we'd both be able to," he replies. I stare at him, feeling slightly uneasy._  
  
**Eight Months Later:**  
  
_Mark grins. "Orange you glad I didn't say banana?"_  
  
_I laugh, taking a sip of my margarita. After Roger left us, I began to check on Mark every day, wanting to hold onto Roger through the next best thing. It was as if he hadn't even noticed Roger's absence. I suppose it was good for me. We keep growing closer, but every time that something serious is forecasted, Mark shies away.  
  
Tonight is different. His face turns serious, elementary school humor aside, and he stares at the floor. Slowly, he raises his eyes to mine.   
  
"Meems, I- I love you, you know?"  
  
"You- you do?" I answer, calmly.   
  
He nods. "I do.  
  
"I love you too," I admit.   
  
He smiles. "Good. I mean- I'm glad. I mean, uh- well, you know."   
  
I set my drink on his night table, kissing him. Slowly, I inch his tee-shirt, which is stained with Tobasco sauce and reeks of lens cleaner, above his head. He slides my camisole gingerly off my shoulders, and leans towards me to kiss my collarbone, but pauses.   
  
"I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't."   
  
"What? Mark, we can use protection. Honey, I'm not going to-"   
  
He shakes his head. "No, Mimi. It's not that. It's just that-"   
  
I sigh. "What is it then?"   
  
"Well, it would upset Roger."   
  
"Mark, Roger isn't going to know," I deadpan. "He can't."   
  
"He will,"Mark insists. His voice is frightened. "And it'll kill him."   
  
I flinch. "Mark-"  
  
"I know! I know that you're uncomfortable talking about him, about what you had," he replies vehemently, closing his eyes in innocent concentration. "But he's still here. You can't just ignore that."   
  
"Mark-"   
  
"He still loves you, Mimi. It's why he doesn't talk to me anymore, or go out, or anything."  
  
"I don't think I understand. Mark, Roger isn't here. I-"   
  
"Try," he asks. "Please."  
  
I kiss him quickly, beginning to make love to him, derailing his train of thought. _  
  
**Twelve Months Later:**

_"Mark," Collins whispers. "We need to talk."_

_Mark looks up from the ground. "What do you mean?"_

_I tighten my grip on his hand._

_Collins shakes his head. "This situation with Roger."_

_"Yeah?" Mark replies, curiously._

_"Don't you think you might be exaggerating it a bit?" Collins offers._

_Mark glares at Collins. "You don't believe me?"_

_"I didn't say that, Mark."_

_Mark tears his hand from mine, and rolls up the sleeve of his sweater. He points to a non-descript patch of skin. "Look! Don't you see that? Don't you see the bruises? He's hurting me, Collins. How is that exaggerating?"_

_I separate myself from the two men, taking a few steps away._

_Mark shoves his arm towards Collins. "Look! Look right there, Collins! Can't you see it?"_

_Collins takes Mark's arm in his hands, letting his fingers rest on Mark's supposed contusion. He lets his fingertips brush up and down the surface, as if inspecting it. His eyes are searching desperately for something, anything, but I know he doesn't see it...  
_

_"Mark..." Collins pauses. "Roger's dead."_

_"What?" Mark whispers._

_"He and Mimi never broke up. Roger died a year ago."_

_"That's not true," Mark insists. "He's-"_

_Mark looks up, and I see his eyes illuminate in recognition. He points towards Roger's doorjamb. "He's right there!"  
  
_**Present:  
  
**Dr. Fairchild watches me intently as I begin to recount the warning signs and remember the pain. He nods, scribbling things in his notebook, and occasionally glancing at Mark.   
  
"There was so much... I should've known earlier, I should've done something before," I mutter.   
  
"You couldn't have known," the doctor reassures me, his voice oozing with more of that false pity. "You were right to chalk it up to denial. However, there is a more serious potential diagnosis."  
  
I sigh, looking back at Mark and smiling, sadly. A bald doctor opens the door to his room, and I see him stir, beginning to talk. Dr. Fairchild saunters towards away from the window, removing himself from Mark's possible field of vision.   
  
"And what's that?"   
  
"Well, Miss Marquez, did you say that Mr. Cohen was extremely frightened of aggressive advances by, uh, this Roger fellow? After October of last year, that is."   
  
I nod.   
  
"And we know he refused to believe that Roger had passed on or "left," as the case may be."   
  
I nod again.   
  
"And he's tried to convince you and your friends of this as well, correct?"   
  
"Mmm-hmmm."   
  
He sighs. "It sounds to me like a mild case of paranoid schizophrenia. Of course, we'll have to run more tests to be sure, but that's what I believe."   
  
My stomach drops.   
  
"It's highly treatable, and can be controlled by meds. However, we'll have to keep him at an in-patient status here for a while, and gradually, through half-way houses and group therapy, he'll be able to return to his regular life."   
  
"How long will that take?" I ask.   
  
"Right now, it's hard to tell. It depends on the patient. Sometimes it takes months; others, years."   
  
Dr. Fairchild hands me his business card, muttering something about another patient and leaves me. I sigh, leaning against the glass and watching my Mark, as he talks to a person who is not there, lost in his own reality.   
  
  


  


  
  
  



	7. VII Mark

**_Author's Note:_** Okay, I apologize for the long wait between chapters. However, this was a transition chapter, and the next one should turn up faster. I had to get to a certain point, and this chapter was my way of doing it. Thus, it might be slow. Please, enjoy, and review!

* * *

**Mark's POV:  
**

They've taken my clothes. I've begun to fade into the background, as per usual, as a result of the colorless pajamas they've given me. I lie here, in my white attire, staring at the white ceiling, trying to avoid the white room's one source of color. Roger has sat in that corner, barely moving, for days, and none of the idiot doctors seem to care. They come in and out, droning about my "fragile condition," and don't seem to mind the frail and menacing figure leaning against their pallid walls. 

"How're you feeling today, Mr. Cohen?" 

The orderly stands before me, wringing her well-manicured hands in anticipation. Her hair is dark, like Mimi's, but without the overpowering mass of curls. 

I nod, knowing that being submissive and polite is my only hope for a temporary escape from the restraints. Perhaps kicking the last orderly was not a wise choice. 

"Mr. Cohen, you need to use your words." 

I silently roll my eyes. I need to use my words? I have not heard that phrase since kindergarten. I am not a child. I have never shared my emotions with anyone; not even my closest friends. And, yet, here stands a nameless woman, expecting me to dictate my thoughts and feelings to her without so much as an introduction. Still sporting a self-satisfied grin, Roger turns to watch. 

"Mr. Cohen, it is very important that you tell me how you are feeling, or you won't be helped." 

I won't be helped. I have been here almost two weeks, and have yet to identify any of the actions aimed toward me as helpful. The woman watches me intently, waiting for an outburst typical of the other patients. For the love of God, I was educated at Brown. I possess volumes of trivial knowledge. Fuck, I can even wipe my own ass and everything. I am _not some blithering nut. _

"Mr. Cohen!" 

The orderly claps her hands together. I'm starting to understand that she wants me to speak or roll over, like the broken puppy that she perceives me to be. I jerk my head in her direction, simply to allow her a shred of appeasement. 

"Yes?" she inquires. Her voice is expectant and her foot is clicking steadily on the linoleum. "Mr. Cohen? How're you feeling today?" 

Taking a deep breath, I consider the scope of my emotion. Well, there is the ever popular and painfully false admittance of a mentally sound state of being. Then, there's the unexplainable desire I have to rip myself from the restraints and strangle the woman standing in front of me. I could explain the animosity that I harbor towards the other patients here, the invalids who wander the halls, muttering to themselves about aliens and Rosalind Russell. I might tell her that my crotch itches, or that the undisturbed stubble on my chin is quickly becoming the bane of my existence. 

Of course, there's always the possibility that I might confess the gnawing paranoia I experience day in and day out as a result of the emaciated bastard in the corner. 

Finally, I settle on the first option. "I'm fine." 

She stares at me. "Fine?" 

"Yes," I insist, trying to quell the attitude that's presently overtaking my voice. "I'm _fine_." 

Roger shifts his position. He stands shoulder to shoulder with the orderly, grinning at me. 

"Stop staring at me," I whisper vehemently. 

The orderly sighs in exasperation. "I thought that you were _fine_."

For the love of Pete, woman, I am just _dandy. You've had me strapped to this cot for nearly forty-eight hours now, my so-called best friend is finding some sort of sick pleasure in my suffering, and I really would like to be able to reach down and scratch my crotch. _

"You're not fine, Mark," Roger says as the orderly leafs through my chart.

I glare at him. "What do you know?"

"Excuse me?" the woman's head snaps up. 

"Nothing," I mumble. 

She returns to her task, and Roger smirks at me. It occurs to me the oddity that no one has paid his presence any mind. What if it's true? What if he really doesn't exist in flesh and body anymore? What if he's right? What if I'm not _fine_? What if-

My thoughts are interrupted by the orderly's mutterings. "I suppose we'll have to remove the restraints." 

Roger snorts. 

"Really?" I ask, practically in awe. 

"Well, yes," she replies staunchly. "You can't very well attend to your visitor if you're strapped down."

"Visitor?" 

She rolls her eyes. "Mr. Cohen, why else would I be in here? Are you usually evaluated this time of day?"

"Visitor." I repeat the word, surprised at the temporary solace it provides. "Who is it?" 

"A Mimi Marquez." 

Roger's smirk fades, and he glares at me, slinking back to his pallid corner. He watches intently as the woman gingerly removes the leather straps from my appendages. She helps me to my feet, and for a moment, I'm afraid that Roger is going to take some sort of action. He's going to push to orderly away and beat me senseless. But he doesn't. His eyes are locked with mine as I'm led from the room. 

And he lets me go.   
  
  
  
  


  



End file.
